Mentalist Episode Tag: His Red Right Hand, 2x8
by Donnamour1969
Summary: Missing scenes/tag to this wonderful classic episode. (This was the one with Red John, Bosco and his creepy secretary, Rebecca.) Jane attends two funerals. Minor language.


A/N: As promised, here is another early season tag from one of my favorite episodes. I loved this—it was perfect in every way. Suspense, mystery, sadness, and even some humor. Superb acting too, by everyone. Most importantly, there were more clues into the inner workings of Red John's network. In light of recent episodes and the Lorelei situation, it's interesting to revisit this episode that occurred before we'd been introduced to Visualize. Rebecca certainly spouted some similar dogma. Plus, we hear that at least part of the reason RJ killed Jane's family was to enlighten him about the real world. Spine-tingling stuff.

**Mentalist Episode Tag: His Red Right Hand, 2x9**

So they buried their dead. Four separate funerals, and Lisbon and the team had attended all of them. Jane had only come to Sam Bosco's, but just for Lisbon's sake. Bosco's widow, Mandy, was there, and Jane watched Lisbon embrace her, noting the unfounded guilt in her eyes as she looked at the wife whose husband had been in love with her.

Jane had the greatest empathy for Mrs. Bosco, and not just for her husband's cheating heart. He nodded to her politely, wishing he could tell her that things would get better, that Bosco's death had meaning. Wishing most of all he could gift her with Red John's head on a platter.

Lisbon's green eyes were red from weeping during the brief graveside service. Bosco had told Lisbon once that funerals were a waste of money and tears.

"Just put me in the ground in a cardboard box," he'd groused over a greasy burger only a month before. "Say a quick prayer, and be done with it."

They'd taken him at his word—minus the cardboard box. His wife, denied by a stubborn husband a beautiful state funeral, had bought the most expensive casket Blake's Funeral Home could provide. The CBI had chipped in, as had an anonymous donor. As Jane watched the beautiful mahogany box being lowered into the ground, he thought it was money well spent. In the end, Bosco had come around to his side regarding Red John.

"Don't arrest him. Kill the son-of-a-bitch," he'd said. That was still the plan.

Contributing to the coffin fund was the least Jane could do for the man and his mourning wife. If Red John's minion, Rebecca, had been telling the truth, Bosco and the other three deaths were on Jane's head. In life Jane had not cared much for the gruff agent, but he had died partly because he'd uncovered new evidence against Red John, and for that Jane would always owe his memory a debt of gratitude.

As the minister droned on about eternal life and forgiveness, Jane caught sight of Virgil Minelli at the very edge of the crowd. Jane recognized immediately the guilt that weighed heavily on the older man, the events of the last few days adding years to his face.

_He's done, _realized Jane sadly. Yet another life ruined by Red John.

The CBI director gave the folded American flag from the coffin to the widow, as bagpipes played a somber hymn. And so ended the funeral of Samuel Bosco. The black-clad mourners scattered like crows, Jane mused; he among them, in his darkest suit.

"I bet Sam wishes he'd eaten more hamburgers," said Lisbon suddenly with a sad smile. She walked with Jane from the grave, the warm fall sunshine mocking the sadness of the day.

Jane nodded, not correcting her that Bosco wanted for nothing now.

"Let that be a lesson for all of us," he replied. No one knew better than Jane—and now Bosco's wife—how loved ones can be taken away in an instant.

They stopped at the red company van, parked on the side of the cemetery road. Rigsby, Cho, and Van Pelt had already climbed aboard. Jane's Citroen was parked behind them.

"You want to go to O'Malley's? Some of us are meeting there for lunch. I thought I'd get a burger and fries in remembrance."

Jane smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I have another appointment," he said. "Have a bite for me."

She looked at him askance, but he wasn't forthcoming.

"You okay?"

"Sure. Sad day, but I'm fine."

She reached out a tentative hand, touching his sleeve and meeting his solemn eyes. "What Rebecca said-it was a load of crap. None of this was your fault."

He put his hands in his jacket pockets, unable to meet her eyes.

"That's a matter of opinion, isn't it?"

She sighed and dropped her hand. "Come with us. It might cheer you up."

"It'll take more than a greasy burger to do that, Lisbon." He hesitated a moment, debating whether to tell her what was really on his mind. Then he plunged in headlong. Who else was he going to say this to?

"Look, I'm sorry for Bosco, for you, for his family. But Bosco and those other agents are past help now. Rebecca—she was the best lead we've had since—well, since _ever_. I could have broken her, I know it. It would have taken time, given the extent of her brainwashing, but I could have made her tell me everything. But now…I may never have this kind of opportunity again."

Lisbon stared at him a moment, and Jane felt like squirming beneath her level gaze. She was going to tell him how insensitive he was, thinking of his own lost family at a time when they should be feeling sorry for the families of the newly dead, the newly in pain. He was a selfish, unfeeling ass. But she surprised him. Her eyes softened, and she wrapped her slim arms around him in a brief, though tight embrace.

"We'll get him one of these days, I promise you."

He closed his eyes, allowing himself to enjoy the fleeting warmth of a rare human touch. Lisbon pulled away before he could fully embrace her in return, but he saw the rosiness in her cheeks at her temerity in touching him. That was something she never did first, at least not with him. Any hugs, touches, or even dances they'd shared were always initiated by Jane. He'd often wondered if she saw him as an abused animal, whom she must allow to come to her lest he shy away in fear.

"I hope so," he replied. He caught sight of the occupants of the van, how they looked pointedly away from their private moment when they saw him watching.

"You'd better get going. Rigsby looks like he's deciding which of you he would eat first."

They smiled wistfully at one another, relieved to have found their normal groove again.

"Okay," she said. "See you later?"

"Yes." He said the word confidently, so she wouldn't worry.

He watched her as she went around the van and climbed into the driver's seat, waving to the others as they drove away.

He stood for a moment, turning his face up to the warm sunshine, taking a deep breath of the earthy smell of fallen leaves. Then he went to his car and left this cemetery for another, farther across town.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The Sacramento County Cemetery was a far cry from the lovely spot where Sam Bosco had been buried. Here was where the bodies of the indigent, the unclaimed, and the scientific cadavers were laid to rest-what passed for a modern day potter's field. There were no sprawling oaks, no monuments that would make Ozymandias proud. Instead, on a grassy plain, small metal plaques marked the names, birth and death dates of the known, a number and date of death of the unknown. This was where Rebecca Moore would be buried.

Local funeral parlors took turns interring the unwanted, so when the hearse arrived from a high-end mortuary, Jane was not surprised, but naturally he felt the royal treatment was much too good for the right hand of Red John. Two men in nice suits got out of the vehicle and opened the back hatch. They pulled out the brown cardboard box that held the murderess. There was at least some justice in that.

No one had claimed the body. A search of Rebecca Moore's identity—if in fact that had really been her name—yielded no living family. A check of her financials showed her bank account had been cleaned out the day of her death, with no trace of where the money had gone. She'd rented her apartment, owned no car. A search of her place and interviews with neighbors had shown she'd lived a solitary life, she, her cat and a box of country music CD's. The cat had gone to an animal shelter and the CD's to a thrift shop, along with the closet full of dowdy dresses and kitten heeled shoes.

"Mr. Jane?" said the hearse driver as they wheeled the gurney onto the grass.

"Yes," said Jane, from his position by the open grave.

"We're not used to having anyone here for burials. You're from the CBI?"

"Yeah. I wanted to make sure this one ends up where she belongs. Any way I can make sure that's her in the box."

The man looked startled by the request, but he and his young helper lifted the cardboard lid, and Jane peered down at the white-faced corpse of Bosco's secretary.

"That's her."

"Good. Well. Heard she murdered some cops." The two men closed the lid again and Jane walked beside them as they rolled the gurney through the grass.

"Some friends of mine," he said, though that was a bit of an exaggeration.

"Sorry to hear that. Guess this saves a long drawn-out trial, eh? God will sort things out in the end, though."

Jane didn't mention how he mourned Rebecca Moore's death even more than he had Bosco's.

Suddenly Jane zeroed in on the helper. He'd looked away when the box was opened-not the behavior of a mortician.

"Hey," Jane said, ducking a little so the man would meet his eyes. "Did you know this woman?"

"Who? Me?"

"This is Riley. It's his first week on the job."

"Hmm."

There was something strangely familiar about Riley, that he just couldn't put his finger on.

"My brother's a coroner," said Riley.

And then it dawned on him. "Is your brother Brett Partridge?"

The kid's eyes widened. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Same creepiness…around the eyes. Same ghoulish industry. Morbidity apparently runs in the family."

"Hey!"

"Apologies," said Jane hastily. "Tell me, were there any other visitors? At the funeral home, perhaps?"

"No. We weren't expecting anyone. We were told there was no family."

Jane shrugged. "Just checking." He knew it would have been unlikely for Red John to have any further interest in Rebecca once he'd killed her. Still, he'd have spent many worthless hours wondering had he not asked.

Jane let them finish their work, watched them lower her coffin into the grave, where she would be buried along with her secrets. He had no final words to say over her, no charges that she rot in Hell or burn there, or whatever one said to dead murderers. He had nothing more to say, so he said nothing. He only stood there, feeling her loss to his very core.

A small truck drove right up on the grass, and a middle-aged man in coveralls got out, nodded to the funeral workers and Jane, then climbed up into the nearby backhoe. When the first scoop of dirt dropped onto the cardboard lid of Rebecca Moore's coffin, Jane turned around and walked back to his car.

A/N: Thanks for reading this. I'll be back with another of these when inspiration strikes again. I took some poetic license here, both with the timing of Rebecca's death, the mortician's helper, and Rebecca's last name (which I couldn't find). But that's the fun/purpose of tags, isn't it?

While we're waiting for another new episode, please check out my sometime writing partner, waterbaby134's new fic, "Fallen." It's amazing!


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